The blue-silver leaves of old olive trees reflect the sky,
and roots run deep in parched earth unchanged
for centuries not years.

This air holds the scent of wild fennel, garlic, olives,
and the sweet promise of citrus and ripened figs.
Sometimes I catch their aroma on the brush of the wind.
The silences are equally beautiful and deep.

This Greek light refracts endlessly, but how
my thought lingers.
I want to gather it in my cupped hands like a refreshing
splash of water and drink.

The blue deepens as light winnows toward evening,
shadows settle like birds quieted by absence.
Gaps lengthen, merge, and drain off.
After a while I am left with the dark rising between us
like the width of memory.

I am buoyant, walking. The sky opens to the slow rotation
of twinkling stars not blurred by motion.
There is a tall cypress ahead, and I’m thinking of a favorite
Van Gogh without its frame, listening to the sound
of an aeolian wind in a language I know by heart.

The secret is all around.
Silence shines like the moon rising
beyond the edge of the world.
All goes gentle into night.
Home beckons.

Stephen Cipot
Garden City Park